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2012-11-04 Michael Slean's Demise
Queens. New York. 11:30pm, sharp. Michael Slean may have been a thug, but he ran his organization like the best of mobsters past. Narcotics trafficking has been a combustive and profitable industry, and he's been in the game for ten years. Ten years of pushing methamphetamine, cocaine, heroin, and all sorts of other high end narcotics into the tri state area. Unfortunately, every criminal organization has its holes, and Michael Slean's have been exploited. His Tuesday evening drop zone, here in Queens, takes place in one of those run down parts of town; the places where people don't go out at night unless they absolutely must, or are up to no good. The drop zone in particular is scheduled to take place in front of an old Catholic church, one that has been transformed into a ministry for underprivileged children in the neighborhood. A sign in front reads, "Our Lady-Perpetual Help School", and yes, there is graffiti upon it, which has changed the name to "Our Lady-Perpetual Dick-Sucking Help School". The school hasn't the money to fix the sign. Two blocks away, hidden in a dark alleyway between two abandoned industrial warehouses, sits Domino's car. Kwabena Odame is behind the wheel, and he is the epitome of calm. He's prepared himself as best he can for the hit on Michael 'Slee' Slean, and now, all they must do is wait... wait for Slee's black suburban to roll down the street, and the telltale navy blue import sports car that follows it. All Domino could hope for is that Kwabena really is ready for this. She is, though with her things always manage to fall into place regardless of the odds. She's sitting in the front passenger seat with the HK 51 tucked into her lap with the stock collapsed. Without a suppressor it really is a tiny little gun that fires big freaking bullets. Even if they've armored the body of those cars, all she has to do is swap out to AP rounds and have back at it. It's served her well in the past. It would continue to do so now. The car itself she never had a chance to swap out for something better, which may be a problem if her aim is somehow off. It's a beat up, rusty old Honda Civic, manual, with one of the cylinders not firing. It also has a habit of burning oil wherever it goes. It was free though, so she got it for the right price. It's also disposable as hell. Kwabena could completely destroy it and it wouldn't bother her any, she's also in this to score herself a nice new car. May her aim be true. Dom checks the watch pinned beneath her left wrist, frowning slightly. "You sure your friend is going to make it? We're running out of time." Domino isn't the only one holding out hope that Kwabena's emotional fortitude can see him through this; though it's doubtful they have quite the same... specifics in mind. The patch-eyed mercenary may be hoping he'll pull the trigger, when the time is right, gripping the strength of his convictions as a soldier grips his rifle. His mysterious 'friend' whispers a silent prayer now, to the gods she doesn't believe in, that the Ghanian possesses the presence of mind and the sheer, ball-gripping courage to be not only merciful, but pragmatically so. Victory can be found in death, of that there is no doubt. This doesn't mean it always is. Exhaling against the cloying screen of her shining black helmet, Psylocke grips more tightly the roaring beast between her thighs, hand gunning the engine as she quickens her already-blazing pace through the streets of New York. In and out of the slow-crawling traffic she waves, spinning out around a corner so fast and low she feels her leather-clad shoulder scathing the unyielding tarmac. They're running out of time, true; but they haven't *yet*. Her crisp British tone breaks through Kwabena's skull as she reaches visual contact-- barely, visible as a dark patch rapidly drawing nearer from the base of the skyline. She's taken the long way round, that much should be immediately and frown-inducingly obvious - but she's done it for a reason. Slee's little convoy is making its way down the righthand street, and the telepath's path is set to converge neatly alongside. Or it will be-- Once she's rocketed off the road onto a patch of rough wasteground, throwing up dirt and stringy weeds as the wheels of Kwabena's motorcycle screech a noisy protest at the brutally sudden turn. This wasn't part of the plan, but she's made a new one. <5.> She begins to count mentally. <4...> Easing one hand from its grip, she turns an open palm outward, and clenches it to a fist. Psionic energy spits into life, violet fire arcing in an electric burst to form the rough shape of a blade. Even on the rough, that borrowed beast continues to accelerate, until Psylocke sways aside, spinning it into another ground-sweeping skid that carries her between the sections of Slee's convoy. To any casual bystander it looks like an accident waiting to happen; they might even miss the singular, scatching slash of that telekinetic blade... But the suburban doesn't, as one tyre explodes apart in the same instant that the driver of the sports car slams on the brakes. "There they are." Kwabena's voice precedes the arrival of two vehicles, as predicted. A black suburban rolls around the corner first, followed by the navy blue import that trails the suburban by two blocks at minimum. The suburban's windows are so heavily tinted that it's impossible to see who, or how many of them, are inside. Kwabena briefly glances behind him, eyeing the duffle bag in the seat behind him, inside of which he has stowed a couple pairs of pants, just in case, and a few spare clips of ammunition for the semi-automatic pistols he's procured. It's just then when Psylocke's voice pierces Kwabena's shell and sounds inside of his mind. He expected it this time, but it still catches him briefly off guard. Not sure exactly how to communicate back with her, he merely hazards a guess, and one thought echoes for a moment in his mind. He waits patiently as the suburban rolls past, eyes narrowing just slightly. No, he's waiting for the trailing car, the one that will be much faster, and filled with heavily armed backup. "She's here," murmurs Kwabena for Domino's benefit. "Get ready." He, as well, begins to count down in his head, for he knows just how far back the second car will run. When the moment comes, he throws the beat up Civic's lights to life, then slams the car into first gear. Tires scream for a moment before they catch their proper grip on the pavement, and the Civic goes roaring in protest out into the otherwise emptied street. Kwabena cuts just across the front of the car in a well-timed move, then spins the wheel to the left and pulls the hand brake in time to send the Civic screaming around Slee's backup vehicle. The import jerks to the right, trying to avoid T-boning the Civic, but Kwabena had the upper hand. By the time the thugs inside have reacted, the Civic has finished its spin and is now directly behind the import, giving Domino the upper hand. Lowering the hand brake and releasing the clutch, Kwabena begins accelerating, ready to ram the import should they not do the same. Otherwise, the chase will be on! All Dom sees is someone on a bike flying around at excessive speeds. "Wish it wasn't getting to be too cold for bikes." That rather looks like fun. Wait, there's the convoy. Wait, there's the bike..! Wait--"What the hell..." is she doing..? Taking out the SUV, apparently! "Yeah, that's her." Maybe Psylocke read her mind? Taking out the wheel was the first thing that the merc was going to do with her rifle. Hey, saves on ammo! In a flash Dom throws the carbine's sling around her torso, telling Kwabena "Go, go!" Not that it needs to be said, Kwabena's surprisingly quick on the pedals. Kudos to him! It frees her up to do the marksman work. The window comes down and she leans out of the car, getting a death-grip on the unused seatbelt while leveling the short but bulky weapon out until the sling is pulled taut. She's got the upper hand, facing them from behind, weapon ready to go. They have yet to get ready, lower the windows, turn around to face the Civic, take aim... Not even close. The thirty caliber carbine ignites with a steady, droning chatter as the import's rear window shatters, the night air strobing with foot-long fireballs from the end of the barrel. It's going to take more than a windshield, a couple of seats and four bodies to stop the path of these bullets. In an instant the inside of the front pane is perforated with spider-web cracks surrounding half inch diameter holes, the formerly clear surface getting spattered in shades of crimson. Nothing is left to chance, and little is left of the car's occupants. With the driver torn to pieces the import spins off sharply to the side then comes to a rest, looking as though a grenade detonated on the inside with the condition its passengers are in. The car itself is in surprisingly good shape, though it's going to need a lot of help from a good stain remover. There's something to be said about a good surprise attack. To any driver who's not perilously drunk, there's little more distracting than the sudden emergence of a motorbike going entirely too fast and apparently spinning out of control. Psylocke's gambit isn't designed simply to render Slee's personal vehicle functionally useless, but throw off the heavily-armed sports car enough to consolidate the advantage of surprise already banked by the nature of Kwabena's plan. When dealing in fast cars and motorcycles, every second counts; and she's bought maybe two or three at the least. She hopes it's enough, though the concern is distant in the face of Go Time as the telepath throws her bodyweight to the opposite side. It takes a titanic effort - hauling these things around isn't half as easy as it looks in the movies - but she's got muscular power to spare, whipping her own vehicle back upright before easing back on the brakes. "Owe you a new set of tyres, my friend," mutters Betsy partway through her third and final skid, drawing the bike to a jolting standstill before flicking out the kickstand. Leaving the helmet in place - after all, she's supposed to be the surprise element here - she all but rolls from the saddle to take off at a sprint for the slowing suburban. It's about this moment that carbine fire erupts in a deafening staccato. "Shit--!" Lips pursing beneath her visor, Psylocke tries to shout out the dying agonies of those four men. This wasn't wholly unexpected - and she has to inwardly admit, may not ever have been avoided. She warned Kwabena herself, that this man would use full force if opposed. Does it make them any worse that they haven't waited for that force to take the first shot? It's moot now. Gone. Harnessing her frustrations, the violet-eyed telepath lashes out with her mind. She's a dozen feet from closing on the lead vehicle's flank, and it takes a fair extension of will to hurl her telekinetic punch so far. Wings of electric fire explode inside her helmet, a harsh burst of light to match the harsher burst of force that suddenly crumples in the passenger side of the suburban. Glass shatters, pitching jagged shards into and through the car's front half-- en route to the 'exit wound' of her psionic blow, marked by the driver's window simply flying outward. Along with the unconscious driver and whatever ordnance he might have been carrying. Unconscious, Domino. Not dead. There's certainly something to be said about Domino's strategy. She's effective. Kwabena blinks as the Civic accelerates toward the import, his teeth exposed by the peeling back of lips as they come alongside. He's momentarily struck by the grotesqueness of what just happened, even though he knew it to be in many ways inevitable. Regardless, there is simply /no time/ to let the effect take hold. They have a job to do, and law enforcement to avoid. The Civic screeches to a halt next to the civic. "God!" he curses. "What a mess!" He peels gloved hands from the steering wheel and throws the car into neutral before pulling the handbrake. He grabs the duffle bag from the back seat and jumps out of the car, momentarily setting it on the ground. "Is it drive-able?" he asks Domino, clearly still referencing the import full of corpses, while shrugging the trench coat from his shoulders to reveal him wearing nothing more than a black, 'wife beater' style muscle shirt. He rips the shirt over his head and tosses it toward Domino, for she might need a good rag, and inevitably, upon Kwabena's torso, it will just end up full of bullet holes. Finally, he grabs a crowbar from his duffle, then lifts it and begins running toward the SUV and their helmeted comrade, ignoring the pistols holstered to either side of his belt. He runs fast, while fingers tighten around the crowbar in anticipation of more trouble from within the SUV. Just then, the back door of the SUV pops open, and one of two thugs left inside leans out with a semi-automatic rifle in his hands. Screaming, the thug begins unloading upon Kwabena, sending bullets flying through the air in what would surely be a death hit for any other man. Only Kwabena is unphased. The bullets soar right through his torso, leaving little tendrils of smoke behind that quickly form back up into flesh and skin once more. Dropping the duffle, Kwabena goes into a full forced run, raises the cro-bar into the air, and charges right into the unending barrage of deadly steel. With a battle cry unlike anything he'd let loose outside the jungles of Africa, he whirls the crowbar around and brings it down into the man's wrists, smashing them and knocking the gun out of his hands. Kwabena follows the motion through by skidding to a halt and raising his knee into the thug's face, knocking him unconscious for a very long time. Two seats to replace, two windows to replace, something to clean up the dashboard, it'll all be good! The blood all traveled to the front and auto windows are designed to be removable from the inside. With the other two working on the SUV, Domino leaps out of the Civic and swaps magazines on her automatic with fast, well-practiced motions, saving the empty one before racking the bolt back and letting it slam forward. 'Cleaning' out the import is going to be quick and dirty for now, hauling the four bodies out then smashing the front and back glass out. And, yeah, using that offered shirt to clean up the dashboard some. Domino does have to work quickly, but she bought herself some time by removing the four problems inside of it quickly! With the yell of the one thug and the return fire quickly following she stops and turns long enough to see Kwabena deal with the problem, brutally but apparently non-fatally. Eh, she can tolerate that. Besides, she has guns to pull off of four dead bodies to supplement her personal armory with. Also, where the fuck is Slee..? It's almost unfair, how the efforts of the rifle-toting gangster are rendered completely null by Kwabena's disturbingly visceral power. Psylocke is almost there when the trigger is pulled, taking her last steps to close on the vehicle as Kwabena charges and brings the crowbar down. She's near enough to intervene during the follow-up strike, her own motions controlled enough that it would be a simple thing to interpose-- to command that man's fate via her own will. But she holds back, watches with keenly narrowed eyes the Ghanian's brutal second strike. It's not telepathy that tells her he's done well, but the instincts of a fighter. That man will live. For good or ill. As for Slee... "You've got a lot to answer for," the telepath speaks clearly even through the helmet, getting a brief read on the man sat inside the SUV before she closes the last few feet in a rush. A hand swings smoothly up, presenting a stub-nosed barrel that bears in turn the promise of rushing blood and paralyzing physical trauma; she's not like Kwabena. She breaks like other humans. It's a different kind of pain that drives her to stop him before the trigger is pulled, and a different level of skill that enables her to succeed. She doesn't even need her powers. Just a stepping kick to jolt the gun's barrel upward, diverting the first shot into the vast heavens. He doesn't have time for a second, the same striking leg swung into swift rechambering with an explosion of force into the right hip. It's far short of a full-powered strike from the powerful kunoichi, but it does the job - it breaks his nose, fills his mouth with blood before he can cry defiance. A moment later she's hauling him bodily out and casting him at Kwabena's feet. "He's all yours." A concealed glance goes to Domino. "*Yours*. Don't think like she does." Seeing that his attacker is out for the count, Kwabena grabs the unconscious man by the scruff of his neck and hauls him out onto the pavement so that the cops can collect him later. Then he joins Psylocke on the other side of the SUV, where she has dumped the man presumed to be Slee on the pavement at his feet. However, instead of striking, or killing, or even speaking threatening words to the man, Kwabena's eyes blink in surprise. For a precious few moments, he simply stares in disbelief, before looking up at Psylocke. "That's not him," he breathes. "He's not here." A quick glance is given to the SUV. It's been cleared out... no Slee, no thugs left awake, and no way to drive that car. He jerks his head to the side, watching as Domino works on busting out the import's windows and gets the car ready to drive. "He must be back at the warehouse!" Kwabena's urgent voice is paired by the sound of sirens in the distance. Sparing no hesitation, he whirls the crowbar up and against his forearm while spinning about and running back toward their imported quarry. "Follow us!" he cries, and snatches his satchel off the ground before jumping into the driver's seat of the import, just in case Domino's talents with weaponry is once again needed. Normally Domino wouldn't just turn her back on potential threats. Normally she wouldn't be working with other people, either. A leap of faith, a lot of trust, and..she has to be honest with herself, she doesn't really know these other two. She's after answers, things which could be obtained without anyone else's help. The way she would have preferred it all along. It's a very good thing that she doesn't need to lend a hand while they clear out the SUV thugs. The car gets cleared, Kwabena's path is clear to get in behind the wheel, and an instant later she's jumping into the passenger seat. Even with some damage and missing glass it's a much, much nicer car than the Civic ever was. "He's not here, is he?" Dom pointedly asks. "I thought you said he -always- took this run! How could anyone have tipped him off!" There's a quick glance passed back to their psychic friend, and suddenly she realizes who it is. Someone that she's seen before. "Oh, sonuvabitch," she hisses through a clenched jaw. This..may not end well for more than just Slee. "No matter how clever you think you are, no matter how fast..." Psylocke takes the same glance into the SUV that Kwabena does, but it's a darting thing-- she already knows there's nobody there, after all, the look more habitual than anything. Breathing a sigh, she reaches up and slips off the cumbersome motorcycle helmet, letting it hang down in one hand as her gaze roams across to meet Domino's. Recognition. The telepath smiles slightly, inclining her head in a gesture that speaks a thousand muddied words. "There's always somebody better." In sharp contrast to Kwabena's hurried motions, she seems almost lethargic as he bellows for her to follow, flipping her visored headgear up into a two-handed grip before her and stepping in loose, easy strides toward the abandoned motorcyle. A final sidelong slips between the other pair before they're likely accelerating and moving off without her. There's no time to spare - and in spite of her apparent tardiness she keenly understands this fact. But they're back to the original plan; create a distraction, while the kunoichi slips through and does the dirty. With that enigmatic thought launched Kwabena's way, Psylocke secures her helmet and straddles the hot, dusty motorcycle. The stand *clicks* into place, and with a few dull roars she fires the engine back up. A few moments later she's a hurtling streak, a few disordered licks of purple hair billowing behind her. She knows where the warehouse is-- and she'll be true to her word, but the first step isn't hers to take. "He -does-," answers Kwabena, just before throwing the car into gear and spinning it in a 180-degree turn. The road they are on runs north to south, with the nearest NYPD precinct to the east. The natural choice is to go west. He checks in the rear view mirror to make sure Psylocke is getting his motorcycle up and running. Then, her voice registers in his mind. He simply acknowledges with a thought, trusting that she'll understand, before turning the car down a side road and heading away from the incoming cops. "I don't know," he answers Domino. "But this is not over. We have to go to the warehouse and finish it." His eyes briefly scan the interior of the car, noting what she'd done to get it ready for driving. That's when his eyes notice a cell phone, lying beneath her feet. He glances back up at her, then looks back forward with a momentary smirk on his face. "How lucky are you?" he asks. "Get that phone. Send a text message. 646-555-6907. 'We're good, we got the pizza'. Hopefully -that's- the number the code was supposed to come from." And then, it's off. The cinematography takes a change, panning up from the stolen sports car as it zooms through the side road and back onto Liberty Avenue, and continues to track upward until the film shows the stolen car from a bird's eye view, traveling down less than populated roads on their way into the slums of East Brooklyn. Some time later, the car rolls down a road similarly abandoned, like the one in Queens where they first hit Slee's thugs. Only there are no homes around, no old churches-turned-education centers. There are only warehouses, many of which are abandoned at this hour, if not altogether. It is here where the recession has struck Brooklyn deep, and opened the doorway to all manner of criminal activities. Kwabena drives the car at a slower pace as they come close to Slee's warehouse. He can see two guards in the distance, standing at either side of the large loading bay that provides entrance to the drug lord's headquarters. A silent plea enters his mind, hoping that Psylocke is tuned enough to notice... it would be wonderful not to have to take them out. A silent entry would be much better in this circumstance. Keep -Domino- close... Yeah. Right. She put the heater on for the drive as it's now a bit more drafty than normal, but visibility isn't much of a problem! Lucky for all three of them that it isn't raining tonight. When Kwabena asks her how lucky she is she gives him a humorless smirk, taking the cell off of the floor and punching out that message to the given number. Her thoughts aren't on the message itself, however. She's mulling over other matters, like how Slee knew, where this psychic came from, and why Dom keeps managing to bump into her. Sometimes, it isn't just luck. Sometimes people are out to get her. She's sensing foul play, and it's originating from the third member of their little team. When the car slows outside of the warehouse Dom's already in motion, pulling a long suppressor from the inside of her coat and spinning it onto the end of her carbine's barrel. She can be quiet, when she has to be. "About fifty meters out, little cross-wind, level trajectory. I've got this." With a quick pull she's got the stock fully extended, the weapon coming up tight against her shoulder, ready to take two quick shots and drop them both where they stand. What the roving camera doesn't show is the motorcycle rapidly moving through the adjacent block, tracking alongside and just slightly ahead of the hurriedly-prepared sports car. Swooping like some polished bird of prey through the traffic endlessly circulating Brooklyn, that buzzsaw purr ramping through octaves until it's a piercing whine audible well astride the general din, the bike makes good time-- almost too good, were one to watch it closely enough. Telepathy comes in handy for navigating traffic; when you *know* what the car ahead of you is going to do, you can dispense with a lot of the normal distractions of driving. Instinct takes over where the physical effort is concerned, Psylocke's honed reflexes responding to the minutest of mental signals. It allows her to keep tracking Kwabena and Domino simultaneously, ensuring that when they close in from the front she's already coming up to the rear. Fast enough that litter is thrown into her slipstream, cats and rats darting aside through the narrow back alleys until she comes to a slow, relatively stealthy halt a hundred feet away. While the Ghanian is casing the joint, she's striding along, pulling off her helmet and the creaking weight of her riding leather, leaving her in a black tanktop and black jeans that look tighter than they are - modified for combat. Shaking out her sleek purple hair by the time she reaches the far rear corner of the warehouse, that quiet prayer reaches her mind. It's quite rare that a woman responds to a silent plea; usually it's better to talk about your feelings, rather than letting them simmer dour upon the surface of your neural pathways. The passive approach rarely gets anybody anywhere-- but clearly, every home should have a telepath. A smile touches her lips, and she plunges a little deeper into Kwabena's mind, the sensation not unlike a sudden rush of warm coffee to the brain. A beat later there's a flare of violet energy inside the car, and a pair of electric butterfly wings hangs between he and the mercenary. That air of command leaves no doubt as to who it's intended for, though it reaches both of them. And then the apparition is gone, and Betsy's got the image she needs, straightening up from her position leaned against a wall. Plunging into the astral like that means leaving her body, which means leaving her body weak and exposed. Better to lean than fall over. Speaking of bodies, her pace quickens until she comes into view of the pair waiting in the car. And then something flashes in her palm, the keys of the motorcyle dropped in a butter-fingered moment that means she's given no choice but to bend over, very slowly and deliberately, to pick them up. The nearest guard - a lumbering neanderthal of the usual variety - glances across, smacking his lips thoughtfully and giving a stiff-jawed chuckle before gesturing to his colleague. Dibs thusly called, he proceeds to leave his post, gun swinging in one hand as he approaches the darkly-clad woman. She turns with a smile, backing off demurely until they're juuust out of view, before pulling him in... To a tight guillotine choke. He hits his knees with a dull thump, and is lowered to the floor. Which leaves one still standing, scratching his head and having a good ol' think about the way his life is going right now. By the time Psylocke has reached her destination, the car has slowed to a halt less than a block away. Kwabena had drawn an inconspicuous approach, with the car's lights switched off, and fortunately, the guards hadn't noticed. He glances over toward Domino as she begins to assemble her weapon, quietly denoting the suppressor, then looks back toward the guards. His brow creases, conflicted. He trusted Domino's aim; she could take out the guards with ease, and preserve their silent approach. But there was another voice bugging him too, like the proverbial angel and demon seated upon each of the African's shoulders. Then, Psylocke's presence rushes into his mind, and a little gasp forms in his lips. At the very same time her voice speaks to them, his does as well. "Wait." His hand reaches over almost on instinct, grasping Domino's forearm in a halting gesture, and when he looks her way, there is, instead, an apparition appearing between them. As soon as it appears, it's gone. Kwabena darts his head back toward the building, watching as Psylocke pulls her stunt and draws the attention of the guards. "Time to get in character, Dom," he whispers. "We're about to bust into this place, and I need you looking like my prisoner, remember?" He nods his head toward her gun, as if indicating that she should get it hidden, and quickly. The moment Psylocke grabs the guard, Kwabena guns the engine and throws the stolen car into gear. This is enough of a distraction to draw the other guard's eyes his way. Kwabena screeches the car to a halt just outside the warehouse door (which isn't at all unlike the way Slee's goons /normally/ return from a drop), then throws the driver's side door open. He leaves he crowbar behind this time, and walks right up to the guard with purposeful strides. "Hey," says the guard, a thuggish looking dude with beefy arms and a goatee. "Hey, you!" He points at Kwabena. "What the hell! You're not-" The guard goes for his pistol, but Kwabena is just a bit faster. He throws his foot up, kicking the pistol out of the man's hand. He throws up a block as the fellow goes for a right hook, then swings his shoulder down and bashes it into the guard's face. The guard drops to the ground with a groan. "You're right," he answers. "I'm not." Spinning about, he checks on Psylocke, before making his way back to the car with quick strides. Wait. -Wait?- And what the fuck..? To say Domino is distracted by a hand on her arm and that flash of purple energy, -and* having the one word injected directly into her mind, would be an understatement, the carbine lowering as her head whips toward the center of the car at the there-then-gone violet apparition. "That friend of yours is really going to cramp my style," she growls. Even with the instruction given she shoulders her weapon once more, now spotting the woman responsible for the interruption. "Oh, you're not -seriously- going to--Christ," she mutters with an irritated sigh. "Where'd you find this one, kid?" she sides to Kwabena, her index finger firmly pressing against the side of the polymer trigger group, struggling to keep herself from dealing with this -quickly- and with finality, all by herself. Psylocke's got one guard? Fine. The merc's got her sights leveled on the other one's forehead, slowly shifting her finger back to the trigger. Waiting. "If she messes this one up she's going to lose what cred she's got with me." Then Kwabena changes the gameplan. Back to the original. Once more the carbine is lowered, icy blue eyes turning to -glare- at the other mutant. "You're not -seriously- going to make me--" Pause. "For fuck's sake." Once again she sets her jaw, expression hardened as she smacks the stock back against the rails of the receiver and tucks the carbine into the footwell. She roughly sits back and tightly folds her arms across her chest, looking more than irritated. Put out, perhaps. Denied. Who's job -is- this, anyway?! Far as she's concerned, Kwabena is only along for the ride so he can get his vengeance on and the mindwalker chick is to make the interrogation go easier so that -Dom- can get her damn answers! Y'know what, fine. If Kwabena wants to stand up and grow a pair then he can go forth and run this show. Domino's just going to kick back and watch what happens. Oh, to have a precognitive vision of the future right about now. Unfortunately one isn't forthcoming - a fact that may actually be for the best under the circumstance, as Kwabena moves to the offensive in the wake of Domino's endlessly frustrated jawjacking. Psylocke meanwhile releases her prey from the clutches of a deadly stereotype, flexing her hand and twisting her forearm following the sharply twisting hold. Giving the body a nudge with the toe of her boot, she glances across to the Ghanian just as he looks at her. A single nod is the only response to his enquiring gaze; it should be obvious she's doing fine. Back to more important business, she drops to a crouch, scoping up the edge of the building... While divesting the unconscious oaf of his rather nice gloves-- coarse leather with tactical mesh allowing flexibility and breathability. They're a little large, but the kunoichi slips them on anyway, before shooting one last look to the car. That's for Kwabena alone; she's not invading Domino's thoughts when she can help it. Call her crazy, but there's a lingering feeling that the patch-eyed mercenary might not entirely appreciate her presence. Let alone having her voice clatter about in her skull. Wait, don't call her crazy. Call her a freaking telepath. Regardless, she's off, springing off powerful legs to secure a high grip on the plate iron wall of the warehouse. Setting her foot against bolts and narrow cracks, she makes fairly rapid progress up the outer wall, closing in on the ever-present, ever-handy ventilator grid about ten feet from the roof. The whirring fan won't be a problem - she can cut that free with a psychic knife, and be quietly inside within moments. She just needs a little more of a distraction to get the drop. Once back in the car, Kwabena sits back down and looks over at Domino. "She may cramp your style, but we can still pull off Plan A." He looks back forward, eyeing the large metal door that prevents their car from entering. "Alright. Here's the plan. When we get inside, I will park nearby a very large storage container. It is filled with flour. Harmless, meant to deter cops if they ever case the joint, looking for coke. Should stop any bullets that come your way. We will wait until Slee is close enough, then, use it for cover when I make my move." He looks over at Domino again, smirking widely. "Unless he has /more/ of those energy weapons, you should have no reason to worry about me." The smirk fades, only to be replaced by a most serious expression. "I will keep one eye on you at all times. Whatever you do, take out the perimeter guards first. One unlucky shot to Slee, and we lose /all/ of the information we're looking for." He lifts an eyebrow, giving Domino an opportunity to propose a different plan. "Because Plan B was so terrible," Domino almost growls in response. They had this stuff figured out, it was a solid course of action! Then again..that was also taking into account that Slee was going to be where he was expected to be. Touche. It isn't this realization that causes her expression to slowly morph into a downright malicious grin. It's mention of that storage container. Filled with flour. Harmless, her ass. "You should ask me sometime about my peculiar relationship with large quantities of flour," she says back to Kwabena with that grin etched oh so visibly over her pasty white and black accented features. "Yeah, you worry about yourself. I may not be made of vapor, but I'll be fine." Just remember who's more experienced in these scenarios, at least between the two of them. To the proposed plan, Dom merely rolls her shoulders and smiles back at Kwabena, making an 'after you' gesture with her hands. It's a rather unsettling look, all told. Psylocke is ninjaing. Don't mind her. "Noted," remarks Kwabena when she mentions something about a peculiar relationship with flour. "Hey, I'm not /made/ of vapor, I just..." He trails off then when she makes that gesture, and shakes his head from side to side. "This had better be the /last/ job we work together," he mutters under his breath, before putting his fist on the horn and honking out a very specific pattern. Moments later, the garage door begins to open. It's all time for business now. Putting the car into gear, Kwabena drives it slowly into the warehouse, ignoring the fact that the door begins to close behind them once they're in. He glances from side to side, noting the thugs that come out of the shadows, one by one. Nobody makes a move; not even the man huddling in the corner who has been strung out on methamphetamine for four days. Kwabena pulls the car up just behind the large storage container, then puts it into park. Wasting no time, he gets out of the car, walks around to the other side, and opens the passenger side door. "Get the fuck out," he growls, getting fully into character. "Now!" Kwabena steps aside, positioning himself so that he will be in front of the car, with Domino, should she follow his lead, between himself and the storage container. Then, he looks up toward the office and hollers out with a loud voice. "Slee! I have your prize. Get your ass down here, now!" Dom's just going to keep her thoughts to herself, for the moment. And maybe to NinjaBitch, if she's listening in. This plan could have worked out alright, if they finished planning it out. As it stands it's a very rough estimate of parts to play, resources to utilize and overall planning on what, where, when and how. In short, it's highly incomplete. Once they shifted gears to 'ambush and kill everyone involved' there wasn't much of a need to revisit this idea. And so, now she's climbing out of the car, completely uninjured and perfectly mobile. Either Slee and Co are giving Kwabena way more credit than he deserves, or they're giving her way -less- than she deserves. Either way, it's embarrassing. "Go to hell," she spits back at Kwabena. "And while you're there, pick an eye color!" This is still Domino they're dealing with. Pulled from the Perfect Weapon project, hatched, raised and trained in a secret installation with the benefit of a power even she can barely understand. Those crude, hand-drawn maps of the warehouse's interior jump back to mind as her peripheral vision maps out the details in person. People, placement, dimensions, obstacles, quickly an unfamiliar environment becomes one which she can be comfortable in when things go sideways. Because any minute now, that's exactly what they're going to do. To those skilled in stealth and infiltration, an industrial location is perfect; so much that it makes one wonder why, precisely, all these career criminals choose such areas to make their hideouts. There may be few entrances compared to the messy window and fire escape arrangements dotting the average rundown building, but they're surrounded by intermittent, loud noises. Nobody notices a fan cutting out, or even the telltale clank of a vent opened or closed. They're just more little touches to what becomes a cacophonous morass of insignificant sound. Psylocke hasn't even had to try, really, to find herself now watching from one dark corner, the loosened bolts of a grate beside her - along with the actual grate. It's a bit of a squeeze, but since when was a ninja anything but flexible? Right. Silently she's drawing not just a visual bead on the warehouse interior, but a telepathic headcount and a brief, furtive mindscan of everybody-- everybrain, involved. Fourteen, fifteen... sixteen, and a couple of people who really don't want to be there. They'll retreat or end up drooling terrified in the corner until the hard part is over. Acceptable. People drooling in corners tend not to get in the way. And there's the bitter irony; while the irrepressible, irreverent Domino spits her way through a role she can't stand, the Violet Butterfly is alighting on one she'd vastly prefer. Plan C: Take them all down, hard and fast. There's still one possibility remaining, however. Kwabena's thought bounces right back, as if more instinct now than decision. He's gotten accustomed to hearing Psylocke's voice in his mind, and his answers seem to be coming more on instinct than intention. Even while this happens, he notices one of the nearest thugs reaching for a handgun. In response, Kwabena whips one of his pistols free and aims it at the thug, right at the man's temple. "I would /not/ do that if I were you," he warns. "We can make this nice and pretty, or it can get very ugly. I hope you understand what I mean." Then, his eyes shift up toward the catwalk and the stairway separating Slee's elevated office from the rest of the warehouse. The ugly, scar-faced thug emerges, his lips curled into a gold-toothed smirk. "Hey, Kwa! Kwa, you mother fucker, you came through!" With a hearty bellow, he starts to walk down the stairs, leering at Kwabena and Domino as he approaches. "Shit! Kwa, my main man." He turns and looks around at those thugs who have joined him on the warehouse floor, and sticks his arms out to the side in a cocky manner. "I can't believe it, he /brought/ the bitch!" Resounding laughter fills the space, but Kwabena ignores it. Slee is getting closer, and he's in a stand-off with one of Slee's thugs. The hammer is about to drop; he can feel sweat forming on his skin. Trying to give Psylocke one more precious moment to make a move, Kwabena looks back to Slee and snarls, "Slee, if you double cross me, you /bastard/, I swear to God you'll regret it!" He shifts his eyes between Domino to the right of him, the thug to the left, and then Slee, walking up the middle toward them. His finger begins to tighten on the trigger. Domino actually has the thought to react when Kwabena whips that pistol out, drawing a quick intake of breath in as though she were really surprised by it all, and nervous about what the guy might do with it. Acting, folks! She's ..not all that great at it, truth be told. Fortunatel, Slee's too beside himself with sadistic glee to notice, probably. What she lacks in acting she makes up for in being a lucky little mutie. And here's the man of the hour! Finally. Hopefully the thugs that Kwabena and Psylocke merely knocked unconscious haven't, oh..say, had a chance to phone back to the Big Cheese and let him know what just happened to them all. That would be highly unfortunate. Sometimes her good luck can extend to her friends, often it's bad luck which she hands out in spades to her opponents, but every now and then Lady Luck sees it fit to royally screw with Dom and huck a curveball square into her face. Luck's a fickle thing, a double-edged sword that does so love to cut both ways. And as Kwabena is eyeing up the competition, about to drop the hammer, her own eyes are slowly narrowing as she plans her attack. It doesn't matter who shoots first, as soon as the hammer falls on any one of the guns in here she's going to make her move. It could be hard to immediately place the intent within her projection, it's so cool and calm. And it's all the warning Kwabena gets before Psylocke is moving in a violent streak of motion, her dark-clad form swooping out into the halogen gloom of the warehouse lights, a flash of violet fire rippling off her form as it twists and flips about. There's too much motion in that first instant; like she's wasting time, flooding the air with theatrics that nobody's even prepared to notice, focused on their own uneasy standoff below. But sometimes, wasting time... "SLEE!" Buys you a little more. With the sharp crack of her tone almost aristocratic against the sleazy backdrop, Psylocke drops like an incredibly athletic and graceful rock, plummeting to the floor hard enough that the concrete cracks beneath her boots. A dull shockwave sends a couple of the stupider - or higher - thugs staggering back in dismay, an intentional side effect of the burst of telekinetic energy worked into her acrobatics overhead. Sleek purple hair settling around her shoulders, the statuesque kunoichi stands for one jaw-hanging moment, confident gaze boring into that of the scar-faced man before her, and then she's thrusting forth. Violet fire erupts up one well-toned arm, spiking with a sibilant hiss into the keen blade of a psychic knife. She's faster than fingers on triggers, and more accurate than any of those sixteen men could dream of being even at this range, driving the weapon deep into the centre of the monstrous man's skull. It penetrates his brain, sending a flash of feedback to Psylocke. It's all she needs; and all it requires to drop him to his back with a soulrending scream. He's not dead - he'll be fine in moments, and the kunoichi doesn't stay to finish the job. "Take your shots!" She utters in a tight rush of breath, daring the assembled gang to do exactly that, but not stopping her motions for an instant-- she's already swinging through the momentum of her psionic strike until she's spun through one hundred and eighty degrees, driving toward the suspect Ghanian in a single, lunging step that becomes a leap. The first bullet whizzes past her, the gun's report echoing off the warehouse walls. It misses. A leg sweeps up and outward, fast and hard, the edge of her boot aiming to scythe into - through - Kwabena's neck. Or so it appears to those watching, incapable of hearing the commanding suggestion made in the instant before she attacks. It's a virtual miracle that Kwabena didn't pull the trigger. He's nervous, on edge, and yes, as Domino predicted, out of his element. However, a certain trust has formed between he and the two women. Oh, it's a very different trust for each of them, to be sure; like polar opposites wrestling against each other and meeting somewhere in the middle. But regardless, it causes him to wait. And duck. The moment Psylocke's leg goes over his head, he rolls to the ground and slams his whole body right into the legs of the thug who'd had a gun pointed at him. His own pistol scatters to the side, but he won't need it any longer, for his opponent has fallen, his gun lost as well. Kwabena meets the man's eyes for a moment, before swinging his leg through the air and catching the thug square in the jaw. Crack, head, bounce, sleep. Kwabena skids about and comes to his feet, only to find bullets streaming his way. He snarls like a caged animal for a moment, but the bullets pass right through him, just as they always do. The reminder of his mutant ability brings him a sort of unexpected calm. Finding the nearest thug, his feet begin pumping him into a full fledged run. The thug's eyes go wide as he unloads shell after shell, watching them pass right through Kwabena's torso, until that very torso has body checked him at full force. The thug goes spiraling through the air and hits the ground, groaning and momentarily incapacitated. Kwabena whirls about, eyes trying to track Domino while more bullets whiz through him, putting holes in his pants and ricocheting off the floor. And where -is- Domino? At first she's caught off guard by the resident Ninja and that violet hand..blade..thingy that she calls out of nowhere. Problem is, the merc doesn't realize that Slee is only taken down and not being killed. Man, if she just lost her only lead on those plasma weapons..! That's a thing which she can worry about later. Before the first shot is taken, she's on the move. Hands disappear beneath her shoulders then come back out with her compensated sidearms, big weapons for a woman of her size but that doesn't seem to slow her down. It's a room full of baddies, one ally which she can safely shoot through, and one which should damn well see it coming in advance. Admittedly, as far as having allies in a firefight goes, she can think of worse power sets to bring to the show! Three rapidly spaced shots slam out from her twin pistols then she's gone, leaping for cover from the room as a whole while spinning about and hammering round after round up through the catwalks to take down the guards stationed up high. Around the other side of the flour bin she rolls out across the floor, hunkers down behind a crate (every warehouse has 'em!) and levels both pistols to take another shot each. Twin jacketed slugs sail through the air, punching cleanly through Kwabena's ethereal head then branch off. One finds a much more solid skull of another thug. The other skips off of his forehead, sparks off of a rust-speckled pipe and smacks into the side of a different thug's weapon, which jerks it to the side an instant before being fired. Rather than strike the intended target, his weapon explodes in his hands. At least the distraction is partway successful - the lion's share of Slee's men see where the prize here lies, and focus their fire upon the kunoichi sailing through the air where Kwabena's head lingered but a half-second before. Boosting her physicality rather than keep expanding her telepathic awareness, Psylocke can't be positive HOW many she's got on her tail, but as she whips about to land in a skidding crouch, the chilling heat of an impact along her left shoulder at least tells her she's someone's favoured catch of the day. Violet eyes blaze with an entirely natural fire as she goes from a crouch to a lunging sprint, direct for the centre of a cluster of frantic gunmen. A few more bullets find their mark, the telekinetic charge bolstering her speed also preventing them from finding the tender, internal parts of her body. Bloody gouges appear in her tanktop, chunks of skin and muscle flaying like punctured polystyrene, but by then she's close enough to strike. An elbow finds a throat, the weight of the strike carrying Psylocke along with her victim, hurling him back into the next nearest man. A pivot sends her rolling around the balancing swing of her right arm, and she emerges nigh-instaneously with a foot across a third gangbanger's gut. Her hands cut inward, the outflung right securing his own arm as it crosses her torso. It's locked with the left, and she bows backward as they both hit the floor. A queasy *snap* heralds the elbow joint giving way. Another one down; but at least two gun-barrels pointing her way. "Hngh!" Never ceasing her motions, she's already disengaging her right arm, looping it down and around the neck of her yelling, sobbing victim. Leverage allows her to roll onto her right shoulder and pull him across her bloodied bod, his screams are cut off abruptly as submachine fire rattles into his oversized gut. The simultaneous work of a handgun is just overkill. Dropping her burden, Betsy rolls to a half-crouch, breathing quickened but hardly panting. "Is that the best you can do?" She calls to the room at large, tensing to evade the next eruption of bullets-- not that she's confident she can, entirely. But this is fast and furious stuff; Kwabena can move with impunity, and she's seen Domino at work. She just needs to draw a couple more bursts her way, and this could be over. "Perhaps--" They aim, they fire, and she rolls, springing up with a fierce, crooked grin as she feels a fresh wound spout a line of hot crimson across her ribs. "You should up the price on my head, Slee!" It's a pity one isn't able to observe what happens to Kwabena's head. With each bullet's strike against skin, the very flesh changes from a mixture of solids and liquids into gas. The same happens to his skull, blood vessels, cranial tissue and eyeballs, until the bullets have safely passed through. The smoke, still very much a part of him, reforms into flesh, bone, brain and eye again. There is no pain, but it is momentarily disorienting. One of Kwabena's hands darts up to his eyes, and he shakes his head to clear it. "Damn it!" he curses. Yeah, damn it, two bullets just went through you and you're fine! Suddenly, his eyes catch sight of Psylocke taking shots. An unexpected rage forms in his belly, and for a moment, his torso begins to shift from solid into gas. It's partially through shifting, even while bullets find their way to and through him, when suddenly it shifts back into his proper form. He lets out a cry of fury, then goes racing for the thugs on the floor who have drawn their beads on his friend. His fists curl and begins to harden, taking on the grey color of rock or metal. This same reaction crawls up his arms and to his shoulders. Acting on pure instinct, he begins to plow through the thugs gathered together like some kind of battering ram. His fists and arms strike each enemy like heavy pieces of iron, sending each one to the ground with cracked ribs, shattered arms, or faces that may not be recognizable when the ER is done with them. Finally Kwabena lands, after vaulting himself through the air and battering through the last of the thugs on the floor with both fists stretched out before him. He steadies himself and almost fails to notice the change in his arms, as they soften back into flesh and bone again. His chest heaves with adrenaline, and his eyes dart around to look for any targets left over. Bam! BamBamBam! It's an absolute slugfest for at least one of the three metas in the room. Spent nickel-plated casings twinkle like metallic rain under the warehouse's lights as puffs of red drift out of the backs of anyone on the receiving end of Domino's pistols. Trying to track where every shot lands isn't possible, yet somehow at least the majority of them seem to find a mark, one way or another. Whether it's to center mass or clipping a chunk of the ceiling to collapse on top of another, things happen, and baddies fall. When she finally does leap out of cover she does so with the last few shots she has to offer, smoke wisping from the vented breaks of the two barrels as behind her one guy falls to the floor on the right and an entire section of the catwalk collapses on top of another to the left. It's Slee that she walks toward next, shell casings skittering across the floor as they try to escape the aggressive tread of her boots. The sights of one pistol level upon Slee where he lies. The other very nearly seeks out none other than Psylocke, but stops just short of actually being aimed at her. Maybe she's playing both sides, but she -did- get chewed up quite a bit in this skirmish. Somehow, against all odds, Domino did not. There was good reason for Betsy's recommendation that the vapourous Ghanian find solace and understanding amongst the pupils of Xavier's school. Aside from anything relative to character or empathetic concerns, his powers aren't quite like anything she's seen; and she's felt the bizarrely elated confusion and pain that these manifestations cause. At least, that's what she's felt up until now. When his gaze finds her, there's a brief moment of connection that gives her just a dim echo of his feelings-- but that echo is more than enough... She almost speaks his name aloud, through sheer astonishment, only her continued attempt to seem like the third party in this nasty little war game causing the former secret agent to bite it back. Instead she starts moving again, keeping half her attention askance - and somewhat wide-eyed - on the action as she darts around the parked car and skirts about to start approaching the recovering Slee from the opposite tangent to Domino. Miraculously unharmed Domino. She's never seen anything quite like Kwabena, but this is starting to become... familiar. "Try it," she states simply, without emotion, as that pistol nudges toward her. Slipping to her feet, her arms fall to her sides, her guard completely down. Inviting the shot, should Domino choose to take it after all; but she's more concerned with the man beyond, recovering from his own brutal rampage. "It's over, Kwabena." That contains more emotion, sympathy and a trace of worry blended with a hard edge of steel - the voice of a compassionate commander. "They're down." Drip, drip. Crimson moisture patters between her toes. "As for you, Mr. Slean." Violet eyes cant back across Domino and down to the primary subject of the mercenary's focus. "Your career is over, one way or another. I've got the combination to your safe, up here," she reaches up to gently tap at her temple. "Look for that part of your memory, and you'll know I'm right. It hurts, doesn't it? Now, when my *friends* ask you questions, you answer." It's over, Kwabena. The Ghanaian looks around at the destruction they've caused, like a boy in a candy shop filled with little venomous horrors. There's a mixture of wonder and disgust on his face, especially when his mis-matched eyes study the four thugs he'd just plowed through, quite literally. One of them is clearly dead; his skull having been smashed through by Kwabena's iron-clad fists until the head is barely recognizable. He looks down at his hands, feeling remorse and power mixed as one. Only which one will take the ultimate hold on his heart? Will he pity the slain, or will he find unnerving solace in a vengeance that goes beyond any yoke cast upon him by Michael Slean, but rather, vengeance toward the mistakes of his own past? Is he casting judgement upon this drug trafficker, simply because he himself was once a heavy user? Blinking his eyes, he seems to come out of the shock for a moment, and watches as Psylocke encounters Slean face to face. He has no questions to ask, but demands to make, and so he turns toward Domino with an expecting look. It's her show now. The thought may have passed through Dom's mind to hold a gun on Psylocke, but she doesn't follow through with it. There's no need to -right now,- correct? Heck, the fight's over, she's no worse for wear (and got a new car and lots of new guns out of it, -and- some money as soon as they open Slee's safe!) Ninjagirl took a serious beating, and Kwabena's seeming ..alright. If not slightly enraged. So, no. She can't really complain about the outcome of this run. Except for one thing. "It's not over," she counters Psylocke. Now she's got both of her guns aimed at Slee's head, as if there's any need for further incentive. "One of your boys in the Bronx had himself a plasma rifle. The same kind that had been used to rob the First National Bank days later by a different group of idiots. Where did that gun come from?" Shame she didn't bring it along for a visual aid, but she does have the next best thing. The violet mind-reader. A quick glance is passed her way, they were all present during that bank robbery. Psylocke should have memories of what transpired there. "Think you can give him a little visual aid to jog his memory?" 'All business' is Psylocke's way of evading the destruction caused on Slean's men, neatly stepping aside rather than present it as a pressing issue. They've already talked about what might be required, about the limits to which Kwabena would be pushed by his foe; and though the particular manifestation of his powers may not have been expected, that he lacked control was also known. There's a time for emotional confrontation, and a time to deal in facts. Domino's blunt attitude is welcome, the telepath even giving a soft snort of amused concession to the mercenary's verbal counter. No, this 'it' isn't over. She's bracing herself for the moment to follow though, and says nothing, keeping her gaze level between Domino and the downed crimelord. There are a number of reasons she might need to step in, and it just happens that the one that presents itself caters to her own preferences. Adrenaline is burning in her veins, the numbing throb of her injuries a distraction that begs another. She nods, and steps forward. Her hand finds Slean's head without gentility, fingertips curling into the lumpen edges of his skull with a brutal efficiency that speaks of her own, underlying feelings. Not killing the man is one thing-- but all this, this mess, the state of Kwabena? If he didn't exist, this wouldn't be necessary. And neither what ensues, as she unleashes a jolt of thought patterns. It hurts - she doesn't see a reason to stop it from hurting - but he gets a clear picture, a sequence from her own memories of the day. The plasma rifle in question being fired, the effects as it is. Then a tight zoom from earlier, before the fighting began. From her own view, the side of the stock and detail of the flashing lights. A serial number, if one was there. "Now answer her." She tears her hand away abruptly, but leaves it hovering as she glances back to Domino. Kwabena stands still, his arms still outstretched, his chest heaving. However, he has closed his eyes and is gradually calming down. This part was not his fight. This was the favor he promised Domino, for getting her into this whole mess. He's trying. Slee winces when Psylocke grabs his head, and then his eyes flutter open with a look of abject terror. He gasps twice, having never felt such fear or invasive power before in his life. When it's finished, his eyes twitch over toward Domino, and he hesitates. He hesitates for he knows just how much trouble he might be in if he rats. Then again... "I... I don't know! I swear! They... they were given to us by some fence! Some p-p-proxy! I don't know the source, but, but I can tell you who gave it to us!" And out it comes, every piece of information Michael Slean has on the proxy who gave his thugs the plasma weapon. It may not provide a direct link, or it might... that remains to be seen. But when all is said and done, it would appear that Michael Slean has finally been exhausted of his usefulness. In part, it seems too easy. In part, it also feels like a cold lead. Another dead end. Domino takes all of this information in, organizes it and runs it past what else she's managed to uncover on her own over the months. It could be that there's a lot more going on in the tri-city area than she's currently aware of... This one guy could mean that she's going to have a very busy couple of months in her near future. On the bright side, breaking up high-tech arms deals can be extremely profitable. There's also something extremely satisfying about watching Slee whimper and plead. "How far the mighty fall," she mutters to no one in particular. One more glance back to Psylocke, she holding together alright..? The next look is passed over to Kwabena, those pale eyes lingering. "It's time, kiddo." He already has a sidearm or two, doesn't he? Dom steps around Slee and backs up just enough to give their fellow mutant room to step forth. The next few steps are his to make, all she can do is try to guide him through it. "Either remind yourself of what brought you here or don't think about it at all and let it happen." It's a wonder the man doesn't urinate himself; there's absolutely nothing threatening about Michael Slean now, with his thuggish bodyguards removed. A king in a chess game, without even a single pawn to mount a desperate defence, all he can do is struggle uselessly or submit to the inevitable loss. That babbling torrent of information rings with the same futile note for Psylocke as it does to Domino-- if she was looking for something solid, for money in the bank, then the fallen 'Slee' was not her man. With a noncommital bat of her eyes, Betsy retreats once her work is done, standing straight and taking two meaningful steps back. Drip, drip. Two more splashes of hot, wet life strike the filthy concrete, an answer to Domino's glance that the telepath doesn't bother giving verbally. She's been shot over half a dozen times-- two mere drips in the space of a few seconds? She'll hold up. All of her own concern is saved for Kwabena, a long, slow exhalation marking the silence that falls as her eyes find his. The patch-eyed mercenary's advice hangs in the air, and it seems like Psylocke ought to offer something more-- but what can say that hasn't been said? The Ghanian should have reached his conclusion in these past few moments, and it's not her place to change that. "This man's nothing, my friend," she murmurs quietly, "You don't need my counsel." When the time finally comes, Kwabena turns and looks at the subdued drug lord with a frown. There were so many things he hated about Michael Slean... his connections, his tempting with words and free drugs, his holding of Kwabena by the leash. He was just like every other drug lord Kwabena had encountered in the country, and he should have had every reason to pour upon Slean every ounce of vengeance that he had left in him. The breaking point for Kwabena, however, was the numbing realization that his mutant powers went beyond dodging bullets. Still echoing in his mind is the hardening of arm and fist, the sound of metal smashing into bone, and the stark understanding of the weapon he might one day become. He looks over to Domino when she's finished, and his mis-matched eyes are decidedly empty of emotion. They then rotate back toward Psylocke, and flicker about to her injuries. A flash of anger seems to spark there, but it's well contained. He looks at her silently, then simply nods his head, before turning upon Slee. In one quick motion, Kwabena comes down upon the drug lord, wrapping his thick black hand around the man's neck. Slee chokes and sputters while being drug across the dirty floor, only to be lifted up by the scruff of his neck and slammed against a large metal container. Oh, how the tables have turned. Kwabena meets Slean's eyes with a warning glare. Slean tries to speak, but Kwabena's hand tightens and he lifts a warning finger, silencing the drug lord. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, /Michael/." Odame's accented voice comes in a quiet snarl, meant only for Slean, even though the others can surely hear it. "You're done. You and everyone else. You're out of the game, forever. Wait for the cops, run away, I don't care, but you're /done/." Kwabena releases the drug lord's neck, only to lower his hand and grab the one remaining pistol from the holster on the left side of his body. He lifts it up toward Slean's temple, letting the cold steel touch the sweat-ridden skin of his foe before leaning in close. "I'll be watching... and if you /ever/ step foot into this world again..." He turns the gun until the barrel is pointed right into Slean's temple. "...I will /not/ hesitate to pull this trigger." The two lock eyes for a long moment. Kwabena is absolutely serious, and as for Michael Slean... the terror comes back to him once more. Tears well up in his eyes, and with a trembling lip, he nods his head in quiet acceptance. The African lowers his gun and re-holsters it, before backing away from the drug lord. He lifts his free hand and taps his temple, right by his silver eye, as if to remind Slean that yes, he /will/ be watching. Then, as if nothing had happened, he walks back toward Domino and Psylocke. "Domino, get in that safe and get what we came for. Leave the rest for the cops." He kneels down nearby Psylocke and retrieves a knife from his boot, which he uses to begin cutting off strips from his pants. "Where are you hurt?" he asks her, though he doesn't make any attempt to look her in the eye. From where Dom's standing, it looks like he's going to go through with it. The pain, the anger, the hatred, all brought forth to one blissful climax of murder and vengeance. She's seen it before, even experienced it herself. There really is no feeling quite like it in all of the world. At first it seems like Kwa's really falling into the moment. Violence and aggression take over, cripes that guy's got some strength to him..! Then there's the inclusion of a gun, Dom's attention purely focused on the two and the chunk of milled steel between the two. And here she thought he was going to need a little more guidance, an encouraging nudge to finish things off. Then... Wait. No. No, -damnit,- "What are you doing?" she suddenly asks with eyes slightly wider than a moment ago. She firmly gestures at Slee with one of her own handguns, but her attention is now solely on Kwabena. "You're going to let that bastard live, are you stupid? After all the damage he's done to this city, after all of the lives he's ruined, after what we went through -just to get to him,- and you're going to walk away? If you leave him breathing I can tell you who's going to be holding the knife that'll be sticking out of your back." If he really can't go through with it, she still can... Right now, she's searching for a single reason why she shouldn't. How many executions has she witnessed? How many sentences handed out to foul men? The truth is, there have been fewer than Psylocke believes, if she sat and numbered them on a dark winter's night. But the day this stops being harrowing, the day this stops affecting her, she'll know she has truly died inside; life is not the precious thing that sentimental fools think it. Death is natural. Evolution only occurs because of it. Some turn to religion for a reprieve - that belief there is at least something 'better' keeps them going - but science holds the answers. The death of a man like Michael Slean would be no loss to the world. None whatsoever. Unless it brought about the loss of the man that Kwabena Odame is fast becoming. Survival of the fittest; the term is more apt than those who use it often realize. The loss of one creature to the unforgiving hand, tooth or claw of another is a natural process-- but for the truly 'fittest' to emerge, sometimes that death blow needs be held. Mercy is not weakness. Sometimes it's the most harrowing weapon of all. By leaving Slee alive, by instilling not just the fear of death - but the fear of living, should he live poorly - Kwabena does something at once more brutal and more righteous than slay him like the crippled thing he is. "Shut up, Domino." It's the first sign of anything but dispassion shown by the kunoichi, her stance and gaze remaining deadly-neutral throughout Kwabena's display - in spite of the myriad thoughts and feelings welling inside. But when she speaks, it's with a stern authority. She doesn't even look at the mercenary save via her peripherals, slowly blinking her eyes as she watches the Ghanian walk away from his primal urges. As he inflicts on the world a terrified man, who'll spread that fear to others. Who might, in his way, now help make the world a slightly better place. "Fear is a weapon, and that's all he is now. A walking, talking message." It's far more curt than the rationale she presents inwardly, but either Domino understands or she doesn't; all that matters for the moment is that she doesn't pull that trigger instead. Filling her lungs, Betsy holds up a hand to Kwabena's businesslike query. "Wait," she nearly whispers, her frown deepening as she turns away. "Please." What seems a hesitant moment is revealed to be anything but, a swift stride carrying the Violet Butterfly past the Ghanian and across to the sobbing, snotty wreckage of his cast-aside foe. It places her in the path of Domino's bullets, once again. On nearing the man, she keeps going, perilously close until they stand eye-to-eye. Almost nose-to-nose. She speaks in a low, threatening voice that only just reaches the pair watching - but reach it does, by design. "Where you walk, I'll be watching. Every time you ponder becoming, again, the man you leave behind in this warehouse... every time you think about regathering your wealth, finding more fools to follow you, just remember this day. Consider the tiny hole in your brain, that little piece of your memory I stole. Mark it well, Mr. Slean. Because that's how I see you, every day for the rest of your life." Smiling, a gesture that falls far short of the unyielding steel in her violet gaze, she presses a fingertip to her temple, and then to Slean's. Hard enough to hurt just a little, the tip of her nail pinching flesh. "My mind inside yours." Drip, drip. Two more gobbets of blood strike the floor between them, crimson ichor spattering across one of the fallen crimelord's shoes. Psylocke leans away from him, placing greater force on his temple as she does so. He loses his footing and sinks down, ending up seated against the battered container as she turns and walks back to Kwabena, the emotion still void from her eyes. "My injuries can wait, Kwabena. We tarry here no longer than needed. Domino; the safe." If fear is a weapon, then perhaps they /have/ created a most powerful weapon in the man who is Michael Slean. These three will be whispered about amongst the criminals of the area, but that fear might always back fire. However, he'd made his decision, in the long and lonely hours leading up to action. He wouldn't pull the trigger unless he had to, and that necessity had never come to be. Looking over at Domino, he shakes his head. "We're not like them," he offers. "We can be, but we're not." With Psylocke's return, Kwabena nods his head dutifully, then begins running toward the stairway leading into Slean's office, where the safe lay. Domino might need some help carrying the loot, after all. Once more Domino stands there, watching. Listening. Fuming. It isn't because Kwabena doesn't carry through with the execution. It isn't even because Psylocke intervenes so that she can't do it, herself. One after another she holsters her pistols, likewise freeing up her hands to retrieve the mass of weaponry dropped from the fallen thugs and guards. Nothing like a slightly gory gun buffet, one where she's the only one picking through the offerings. Ones that have slings or ones that might fit into her combat webbing or get tucked into a pocket, they're a given. In short order the merc femme looks like an ordnance porcupine, stocks, grips and barrels jutting out all over the place. She'll follow Kwabena up to the office to take out their cash prize, as well. Though her path takes her -right- next to Psylocke, stopping, smiling an ever sweet but dark and dangerous smile to the psychic. The shotgun now in her hands has a fresh shell roughly jacked into the chamber, the steel and plastic hull clicking against the floor. Her tone stays level, but carries with it plenty of wicked emotion all of her own. "Don't ever tell me to shut up again." Dom walks past Psylocke, passing behind the other woman so closely that it's almost a miracle their shoulders don't connect with explosive results. Then she goes up to the office, taking the stairs two at a time. She's getting compensated for this, goddamnit. And then she's going her own way. Same as always. Psylocke doesn't budge as Domino brushes past her. Not physically, and not in any other sense. There are times when a situation needs to be resolved through careful, well-reasoned words, and others when it's best to backpedal furiously to correct a personal slight. It takes approximately zero point six seconds for the violet-eyed telepath to conclude that this is neither of those. Instead, she simply crosses her arms, head tilting just enough that she can level a cool stare at the patch-eyed mercenary's retreating back. She says nothing... Because she doesn't *need* to say anything. The safe is opened, and the contents are dumped into the bags provided by Domino and Kwabena. As for the Ghanaian, he only snatches a portion of the funds inside. He drug Domino into this mess, and he got her out of it, at least for now. He only needs enough to pay his rent and way for the next month or so, and provide Psylocke some compensation for her bullet wounds. A couple $10,000 straps filled with Ben Franklin's is enough compensation for him, the rest Domino can take. He collects his discarded handgun, then quickly rips a jacket free from one of the downed thugs to put over his naked torso. Fully expecting Domino to go her own way with the car she's taken, he instead walks over toward Psylocke, giving her an expectant nod toward the front door. "I hope you remember where my bike is parked," he suggests, before grabbing the controls and causing the garage door to open. There are sirens in the distance, coming closer, but they are given precious few moments to make their escape, leaving behind a warehouse riddled with dead and injured thugs... And the shell shocked, terrified form of former drug trafficker, Michael Slean. Category:Logs Category:RPLogs